Not About Angels
by TSOHG A MA I
Summary: What’s a girl to do when she’s thrust into the universe of Supernatural with no discernable skills other than a remarkable ability for innovative organization? Well...there’s really only one option left at this point, I’m afraid.
1. Arrival

NOT ABOUT ANGELS

CHAPTER ONE: ARRIVAL 

"I told you," I growled for what felt like the hundredth time, "I. Don't. _Know_. How this happened."

"Well, ya better start thinking quick, sweetheart," said Dean gruffly, motioning pointedly with his very loaded gun, which just happened to be pointed directly at my face. "Cause time's a tickin'."

"Hey, just...hold up for a second, Dean," Sam gestured cautiously for peace, clearly well schooled in placating his older brother. He eyed my restraints—which did a good job of thoroughly securing me to my chair—with a disgruntled frown and a furrowed brow. "Is this really necessary? She's just a kid..."

"I'm twenty-seven," I snarled at him bluntly. But at his startled look, I lost my bite and just sighed morosely, resigned. "Don't worry about it… I get it all the time. Check my license if you don't believe me. Back pocket."

Looking more intrigued as a counter to Dean's hostility—though I imagine that was only because he hadn't been in the room when I'd slammed through space time right onto the table in front of the eldest Winchester, making him spill hot coffee all over the front of his trousers—Sam gingerly reached around to retrieve my wallet. After a careful observation, he raised both brows and looked at Dean.

"She's telling the truth," he confirmed grimly, taking another glance at the license, before reaffirming a bit dubiously, "Hadley Dent?"

"That's me…" I sighed, tugging at my bonds uselessly. "And that's no relation to the former Gotham District Attorney, I swear." I snorted, "Although this is weird enough for Batman—I honestly would not be surprised if he spontaneously descended from the rafters right about now." I shook my head at them in grim bemusement, "Sam and Dean _fucking_ Winchester…" I eyed Dean's gun darkly. "You might as well just shoot me now. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Wait, what?" Dean's gun dropped slightly in his confusion. "What the hell you talking about, kid?"

"If this is some fucked up dream," I explained, "you shoot me, I wake up. And if it's not, hell, you'll be saving me a lot of misery." At their continued consternation, I elaborated slowly, "Everyone around you... _dies_. Usually slowly, or in some other horrible, unspeakable way. Sometimes, they even do it _more than once_." I met their stony stares with one of my own. "I'd like to avoid that, thanks. Just get it over with."

"Hold on," Dean said, slapping his gun on the table beside him, and fixing me with a frustrated look. "No one's dying here until we figure out who, or _what,_ you are, and what the hell just happened."

Sam walked over beside his brother, his determined expression clearly seconding that statement.

"Well, I'm Hadley Dent—born Harriet, but who the hell wants to walk around with a name like that?" I shrugged.

"Like Hadley is much better?" Dean snorted derisively.

I shrugged again with a snort. "Better than being called Harri. Or—what do they call you again? Deano? Like the Flintstones character? Makes sense. I've been getting a real caveman vibe from your general direction..."

I scrunched my nose up at him for good measure.

"Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before," he brushed it off with the same stony face. It was kind of intimidating, which was weird, because I'd never felt intimidated by him on screen before. But I suppose that was to be expected. "Nice try, but this ain't about me. Wanna try telling me what set all the alarms off in this place like Fourth of July fireworks twenty minutes ago? Oh, and how about appearing out of thin air? And let's not forget how you seem to know everything about us!" When I merely glared at him, he exchanged a look with Sam. "What are you thinking? Witch?"

"I'm _not_ a witch," I growled irately, faster than the still disgruntled Sam could reply. "As for your first two questions, like I've already told you, I. Don't. _Know_." I paused, eyeing them both warily before addressing, "And the third one? Well, that's...complicated."

"We can deal with complicated," Sam assured with a searching look. "Just give us something."

"...Fine," I sighed, closing my eyes in defeat before looking back up at them slowly. "You guys had any weird encounters with an angel named Balthazar in recent days? Specifically, of the alternate reality bending kind?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a heavy, pointed look that told me all I needed to know.

"Yeah…" I said dryly. "I've watched your TV show. A lot."

Total silence.

Sam raked a hand through his hair anxiously, but Dean, I thought, summed up the situation rather eloquently.

"Fuck."

"Yep." I agreed bleakly. "That."

"But...Balthazar's dead," Sam pointed out, making matters ten million times worse.

I slumped, my head falling back in utter exasperation and I repeated the all too appropriate expletive vehemently. Then a thought came to me and I sat back up quickly.

"Gabrielle?" I suggested hopefully.

"Dead," Dean shot down, beginning to pace.

"Fuck!" I groaned loudly, slamming my feet down on the floor, slumping in my seat again, and creasing my eyes shut as desperation began to set in. They flew back open to stare at the hunters accusingly in my mounting rage though, straining at the limits of my bonds as I stretched towards them. "See?! Everyone around you dies! So if you can't find someone to warp me back home, just fucking shoot me now!"

"Hold on," Sam began, "we don't even know how you got here. If we can find the person—or thing—that sent you—"

"Oh, spare me," I snapped. "I've seen the things that happen to people you care about—even those you try to help. And the people like me? The ones you don't give a rat's ass about? Hah! God help them—oh wait!" I went on, bordering on hysteria, "He doesn't give a shit about them either! Hahahah!" When the mirthless, cold laughter tapered off and I was faced with their disturbed and affronted faces, I said seriously, "Take it from me, I'd be much better off with a bullet in my brain than your 'help.' Even if you don't care, even if you've got a hundred better things to be doing, surely you can take the time out of your oh-so-busy schedules for a mercy killing."

Dean snorted and stalked up to lean over the table in front of me with a scowl brewing behind his eyes. "So, what? You got a death wish, is that it?"

I thought about that for a second, thought about home, and life back home, then huffed a bitter little laugh. "Yeah… Yeah, maybe I do."

"Dean—" Sam started, looking alarmed and uneasy, about ready to intervene, but he hesitated.

The elder Winchester just gave me a ten mile stare, before canting his head in a half-shrug and slid his gun over in front of me with a simple, "Okay."

"Wait, Dean," Sam tried again, moving around the table as Dean went to work on jerkily removing the cuffs around my wrists. The way he was acting was beginning to get unnerving.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean dismissed him, unlocking the cuffs and tossing them on the table carelessly.

I took a moment to rub some feeling back into them with a frown, eyeing Dean warily as he continued to stare me down.

"Well?" He gestured towards the pearly handled gun in front of me flippantly. "What'cha waitin' for? Get crackin', kid."

"Dean," Sam said again, more firmly this time.

"What? Kid doesn't want our help. If she wants to die, I say, let her. So go right ahead," he addressed me once again, bitter emotion seeping into his voice. "But I've seen too much death, and I got too much blood on my hands. If you know as much about us as you think you do, you oughta know that. So go on and eat that bullet if that's what you're hungry for, but me?" He held both hands up, shaking his head and backing away slowly with a heated stare. "Don't get me involved."

I looked from him, to the gun, and back again a few times, feeling a sinking sensation in my chest. Slowly, fingers twitching with dread, I reached for the firearm.

"Wait, hey, Hadley—" Sam started to advance on me, but Dean held out an arm in front of him to bar his path.

"Leave it, Sammy," he said grimly.

"Dean, I'm not just going to stand here and—"

"I _said_ ," Dean cut him off for a second time, voice deadly serious, "leave it."

My heart was beating out of my chest as my hand closed around the butt of the gun. It took a second to find the safety, but even with untrained fingers I managed to switch it off. It rattled as I raised it up to my temple, which was concerning at first—was there something wrong with the gun?—but then I realized it was my own hand shaking uncontrollably. My finger curled around to rest impossibly light on the trigger…

 _Do it_ , my own voice commanded in my head. _Get it over with_.

 _How?_ I wondered desperately. _How do I do this?_

 _Just pull the trigger. End it now. It's so easy. You won't even feel a thing. You haven't felt a thing for years, anyway._

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, my thoughts running through all the worst things about my life. This mishap? Ending up in another reality? This was just the straw that broke the camel's back. The funny thing about the rest of it, though? It was barely even a blip on people like Sam and Dean's radar. It was nothing to cry about. Normal, day to day problems that everyone dealt with. And sure, I'd grown so distant from friends and family that they barely even existed anymore. I barely existed. That wasn't even the issue. It was the pure mundane, monotony of it all that drove me to the edge. The same thing, day in and day out, isolated, and excruciatingly numb, with no one to share my world with. And now, this. Trapped in a place that spelled almost certain death for someone like me.

What was the point of all this again?

Oh. Right.

Time to get it over with.

I let out a shuddery breath, willing myself to press down on the trigger. The barrel felt like chiseled ice against my skin. I was going to do it. Really. It was long overdue anyway. It had to be done. It wasn't just a selfish indulgence anymore, there was no other option now. Or so I told myself. But then something was nagging at me. Eyes were digging into me, watching, waiting…like it was the exhibition of a century. I couldn't stand it.

Why couldn't I have just one moment of peace? This last moment should feel sacred, private, and...it should belong to me. Just me—no one else. In this moment I should feel like I am the architect of my own destruction; a feeling of triumph when I finally take control of my destiny instead of drifting like flotsam and jetsam, sleepwalking through each and every day that is exactly the same as the one before it with no exception or chance of changing any of it. I was so tired. So, so tired of wishing, and pleading for some kind of release, and now...now I couldn't even have this one thing. Instead of feeling relief...I felt nothing but a deep sinking shame.

With a low, keening cry, it was lucky I still possessed enough sense of mind to switch the safety back on before hurling the gun across the room.

"Hey!" Dean shouted in objection. "Be careful with that thing!"

I was too busy hunched over, sobbing, choking, and dry heaving, rocking my body back and forth with my face in my hands to pay him any attention.

"Great job, Dean," Sam muttered sarcastically, reaching my side as the older Winchester—seeming more concerned with his gun than anything else—went to retrieve his abused firearm.

"Hadley..." he said in his typical sensitive-Sam voice, carefully placing a comforting hand on my shaking shoulder. "We're going to do everything we can to get you back home."

I just shook my head, repeating hysterical broken statements like, "I can't...I can't…I don't...I..."

I still don't know what I meant to say, or what I was more afraid of.

 _I can't go home_.

Or.

 _I don't want to go home_.


	2. Suicide Watch

NOT ABOUT ANGELS

CHAPTER TWO: SUICIDE WATCH

I woke up the next day with a sinking feeling of wrongness, and I didn't know why at first. The first thing I noticed was that my radio clock hadn't gone off. I always got up at the same time every morning before I headed off to the office, and my anxiety spiked, because if it hadn't gone off, that meant I was late, and I was never late. And when I shifted in bed and realized my sheets felt odd and unfamiliar, my eyes shot open to stare in utter bewilderment at the completely foreign ceiling. Bolting upright with the thought, ' _Where the hell am I?_ ' I panicked for a few seconds before an understanding laced with despair dawned on me.

 _Oh_ , I thought, overwhelmed with dread and feeling sick.

That sick feeling continued to grow until I stumbled out of bed and tripped into the bathroom, barely managing to collapse in front of the toilet to empty the contents of my stomach into it. It couldn't be real, but it was. This was no dream. The horribly nasty and vivid feeling of vomit coating my tongue and clogging up my sinuses proved that quite clearly. More dread washed over me, shivering down my spine like a freezing deluge as I considered my dire straits with despair.

"Oh god…" I found myself muttering to myself helplessly, wiping my mouth and repeating, "Oh god…" But then I paused, a crazy, desperate idea sticking in my thoughts. "... _God_."

Hurriedly, I laced my fingers together—though it took a little longer due to the shaking—and bowed my head. My eyes were shut tightly in pure focus, as if somehow it would make my intentions clearer as I went over what I wanted to say in my thoughts.

What came out was more indecisive that I would have liked.

"God…? Or...is it Chuck? I…" I swallowed tightly, before gathering up my courage and continuing in a willfully stronger voice. "My name is Hadley Dent, and I need your help." I paused again, shaking off the silly, embarrassing feeling of talking into thin air, before adding hurriedly, "I'm sure you get prayers like that all the time, but...this is different. You might already know this, but a…'gateway' between realities was opened yesterday at the Men of Letters bunker in Kansas. It closed back up, but...before it did, _I_ came out of it, and…" My lower lip trembled with the ominous onset of tears, and my voice came out choked. "I know you don't like to get too closely involved with things anymore, but I could really use your help right now…"

I wasn't expecting anything. I really wasn't. But after a minute had gone by without a sound of anything but the faucet dripping, I closed my eyes again and my shoulders slumped with true despair. I realized I'd actually gotten my hopes up. God had never answered my prayers in my own dimension, why should I expect him to answer them here? What made me any different from the countless other souls who'd fallen into the unforgiving world of the supernatural?

Nothing.

Or so I thought, before I heard someone clear their throat a little awkwardly behind me and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I leapt to my feet precariously, wobbling and flailing my arms to try and keep balance, but I caught my heel on something, and knocked over the towel rack as I attempted to slow my fall with it. I would have tripped over the side of the shower too, had Chuck not reached out and grabbed my arm just in time.

"Oh my god!" I squeaked automatically as he steadied me with both hands on my shoulders, my eyes—large as dinner plates—scanning his ridiculously familiar countenance. Then they flicked down and I faltered out a nervous, "I...I mean, th-thank you."

"You're w-welcome," he mimicked my stutter with a cheery, good natured facade. "You seem to be familiar with my other identity though, so let's roll with 'Chuck,' instead of that big lofty G-word, 'kay?"

"I...um, s-sure. I was...I was just surprised, I…" I felt abhorrently shy all the sudden, and still couldn't meet his eyes. "I didn't really think you would come…"

"I usually don't," he admitted candidly, still almost insultingly cheerful. "Not in person anyway. Sometimes I'm there in spirit, and that's usually enough. But this time…" he trailed off thoughtfully, eyeing me inscrutably. "Doors to the split-worlds don't just open randomly. It's concerning, even to higher beings, like myself. And I don't think it was an accident. Especially right smack dab in the middle of Sam and Dean Winchester's secret clubhouse."

And at that, despite being in the presence of a divine entity, I couldn't help dryly remarking, "It's really _not_ all that surprising when you think about it. When they're not out actively looking for trouble, trouble inevitably finds them—it's like some unspoken cosmic law of the universe, or something..." Curiously, I added, "Did you have something to do with that?"

Chuck/God wavered a bit with a shrug, and admitted sheepishly, "Maybe a little...could be a design flaw. I might look into it later. _But_ ," he continued, "I still don't think the anomaly here is a coincidence. There was some sort of intelligent design behind it—I can spot that kind of thing from a light year away." He actually seemed a little excited when he remarked, "Time to put my detective hat on."

"I…" I began carefully, "Thank you... _so much_ , for looking into this for me, and...I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am for you coming here, but…" My voice dropped to a hopeful quiver when I asked, "Is there _any_ chance you could open another gate and send me back home?"

Chuck winced, and I felt my stomach drop down to my toes as I sensed that whatever he had to say was not the answer to my prayers.

"Well...that's where this gets complicated," he said apologetically. "I can absolutely open a gate and send you on your merry way, but since there are so _many_ split realities out there—they're infinite, actually—there's no way to tell which reality I'd be sending you back _to_..." At my blank expression and complete silence, he ventured, "Why don't you tell me a little about home? Help narrow it down a little? Are you from a non-linear future split?" He hummed thoughtfully, remarking, "That would explain how you came to know the things you know. That's a simple fix. We'll just recreate the conditions of the split—assuming you _know_ what said conditions are—and send you on forward in time. Easy enough. Bada-bing bada-boom."

I shook my head slowly.

"Not the future. My reality is one where everything in this reality is portrayed as a TV show," I explained woodenly, "That's how I know what I know. As for linear or non-linear..." I contemplated, feeling more than a little overwhelmed with the physics lesson. I'd failed that class in high school too. "What year is it?"

"2013," Chuck supplied helpfully.

I shook my head again.

"Non-linear. I'm from December 23, 2017."

"Sooo," Chuck verged, "assuming the TV show keeps pace with the year, that would leave you knowing the future for, what? The next half decade? Give or take a year?" Unexpectedly, he laughed, making me frown. At my consternated expression, he laughed again and explained amiably, "It might not be official, but I'd say that just about makes you a Prophet in all but name, doesn't it?" He contemplated me for a second with a scrutinizing and ominous once over before shrugging callously, "Eh, why not? There probably isn't going to be another Prophet born for a century at least, and poor Kevin could use the help. Starting up a fresh new bloodline couldn't hurt either."

"Wait, _what_ —"

But before I could protest, he reached out casually and lightly tapped my forehead. For all the seeming harmlessness of the action, I could have been struck by lightning. I dropped to my knees with a breathy gasp like a fish out of water, all my muscles taut as piano string wires as I held my head—indecipherable symbols flashing at lightspeed through my mind. Not indecipherable for long though. Soon enough, the shapes and nonsensical markings began to make a strange kind of sense, but it was over before I managed to make anything of it. And when I snapped out of my shell shocked state, I was once again met with the infuriatingly cheerful face of Chuck.

I opened my mouth to say...I don't know what, because nothing came out but a dry sounding stutter.

"No need to thank me," he waved off my non-existent exhalations graciously, then deigned to notice my still shocked state and had the decency to look a little sheepish. "Oh, you're confused. Sorry, I suppose I should've explained first. If you want to put what I just did into human terms like science, you can say I gave you the 'Prophet Gene.' That gene will be passed down to your children, and their children, and so on, and so on, and— _so!_ Just in case we don't manage to get you back to your reality within your lifetime, you'll still find purpose here."

"Purpose? For _me?_ " I couldn't help but snort. "Oh, you _really_ shouldn't have…"

"Don't mention it," he waved me off cheerfully, but cautioned, "Just don't shack up with Kevin if that at all occurs to you as an option. No continuing the bloodline that way. One Prophet gene cancels out another. Punnett squares don't really apply here."

I didn't think I should gratify that with a response.

"Listen, Chuck—I know you're, well, _God_ , and you have a tendency of being heavy handed with this stuff, but could you, I don't know, at least _try_ not to be so impulsive all the time?" I scowled at him instead, and he had the nerve to look alarmed. "That's what started all the trouble with Lucifer, you know…"

"I'm sorry," he answered with a frustrated expression, "how exactly did my 'impulsive tendencies' lead Lucifer to want to destroy all humanity?" At my deepening scowl, he assured, "Hey, I'm trying to wrap my head around your logic here, but..." He shook his head with a regretful 'tsk', "You're just not making sense."

Even if he was God, I still couldn't help but roll my eyes.

"Did that kind of destructive behavior from what was previously your best and brightest soldier remind you of anyone? A _relative_ , perhaps?" I hinted impatiently. At Chuck's stony silence, I finally pushed, "Did you really expect a _mark_ to hold _her?_ I'm amazed Cain's been able to hang on to it for as long as he has."

For once, Chuck's countenance was devoid of anything resembling his cheery facade. I thought I would be relieved to see it gone and see something real in its place, but that was until I realized how daunting it felt to truly be in the presence of the divine creator. It was...humbling. And that's saying a lot, because I was not one to be easily humbled.

With a shadow in his voice, God spoke.

"We do not speak of _her_..."

Feeling the first tingles of fear, I squeaked out, "...Fair enough. Family issues. I totally get it. I had a cousin who was like the antichrist when we were kids. We did horrible things to each other, and I..." I stopped when, with one more look at God's stone face, I realized I was trying to relate to a divine being. This was a redundant effort at best, rambling at worst. Regretfully, I bowed my head, and said, "I'm sorry, Chuck…"

In an instant, the cheery facade was back and he patted my shoulder.

"You're forgiven, Harriet." I cringed at the use of my given name, which seemed to be the point of the invocation in the first place. And then he said, "You know, I'm _glad_ you're here. Being Chuck is fun, but it was starting to get just the slightest bit monotonous. Then you show up, and now I get to be _detective_!Chuck! It could be like a spinoff to my Supernatural series. I'll even make you one of the main characters—what do you say?"

"Uh...sure. Go for it," I shrugged, a little bemused, not seeing that my opinion would make a difference to a god, either way. The thought occurred to me that Chuck was the biggest fourth-wall-breaking troll in living history. "Just, uh...don't call me the H-word, and please—for the love of all that is holy—don't throw me in the warpath of a hungry ruguru. Please?"

Chuck seemed not to hear my pleas as he enthused, "This is so exciting—I'm going to talk to my editor and update my blog—wish me luck!"

I did so a little uncertainly, unsure what he was more focused on—sleuthing for clues about my ejection into this reality, or a new book deal. But I soon found myself waking up to the sound of pounding on my door, and I had no time to think about the fact that it had all been a dream. Or was it? There in spirit indeed… Sneaky Chuck.

"Hey! Suicide watch! What do you think this place is, a bed and breakfast?" Dean called from the other side of the door. "You didn't hang yourself on the sheets, did you? Don't make me come in there and haul your sorry carcass out to burn."

Affronted, I sat up and stalked over to the door, throwing it wide and giving the oldest Winchester the stink-eye.

"Did you just call me 'suicide watch'?" I asked incredulously, a look of rage playing at morphing my haggard, stress-worn features.

"Yeah, 'cause that's what you are," he answered dismissively then gestured at the young Asian guy beside him who could only be, "Kevin, Hadley. Hadley, Kevin. There, introductions are over. You—" he poked a finger at Kevin "—are to keep an eye on this—" he jabbed the finger back at me "—make sure she doesn't off herself before we can find a way to send her back to her wacked up dimension. Capiche?"

"Actually," I answered dryly, "God sent me a dream last night. He said he's on the case. You guys don't need to worry about it. I'm good. And," I looked to Kevin, rubbing the still sizzley sore—and likely reddening—spot on my forehead where the deity had touched me, "incidentally, he made a Prophet out of me too, so I can help out with the angel tablets if you want."

Dean blinked several times.

"I'm sorry—did you just say God talked to you in your sleep and turned you into a Prophet?"

"Got it in one." I nodded at him matter-of-factly, then turned to Kevin. "Shall we get started?"

"Uh...yeah," he said, looking a little startled, but thrilled, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder, "the tablets are this way. Um...do you want some coffee or something first?"

Kevin was my new favorite person.

"Is it okay if I hug you?" I asked seriously, then changed my mind, "No, wait—coffee first, hug later. Are we good?"

"Yeah," Kevin laughed, clearly relieved that his workload looked to be diminishing by half as we spoke. "We're great."

"Hold on," Dean interjected, still in a state of utter consternation, "can we talk about the part where _God_ — _the_ God— _talked?_ To you? And he just, what—" he snapped his fingers abruptly "— _boom_ , made you a Prophet—just like that? He can _do_ that?"

"Well… _yeah_ ," I verged dryly. "It's _God_ … He can pretty much do whatever the fuck he wants, regardless of how anyone else feels about that." After a moment, I added, "He's also a giant troll."

Dean blinked again, looking torn between the desire to punch something and scream, with this oddly concerning smile etched on his face.

"God is a troll," he echoed, getting a feel for the words, his voice overly pleasant as if he was trying very hard not to explode. I wouldn't want to hold a needle anywhere near him at the moment.

"Yeah, like an internet troll," Kevin supplied, seemingly oblivious to Dean's inner turmoil and giving my revelation some thought. "That kind of makes a lot of sense, actually…"

"It makes _all_ the sense, unfortunately," I commiserated with him.

"Hey, guys," Sam walked up with a duffle bag over his shoulder, giving each of us an assessing look, lingering on Dean with some concern. "What's going on?"

Dean turned the strained smile on his brother and repeated, "God is a troll."

Sam frowned.

"What? Like an internet troll?" He made a vaguely appreciative face, and with a shrug, remarked, "...Makes sense."

Which was the final straw for Dean apparently…

"AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS THE WORLD MAKES _ZERO_ SENSE RIGHT NOW?!!" he roared, making Sam—the unfortunate newcomer to the conversation—actually jump.

Without waiting for an answer to that, Dean stalked off down the hall towards the exit of the bunker, swinging his arms irately as he went. Sam blinked after his retreat almost looking hurt by the outburst.

Then he turned to Kevin and I, and asked, "Wait—was he serious?"

"As a heart attack," I answered flatly.

His jaw went a little slack for a second and looked about ready to ask a storm of questions, but thought better of it, shook his head, and declared, "Raincheck." He nodded to Kevin and said, "Have fun with the Angel tablets."

"Have fun killing things," Kevin answered in turn and waved.

"Stay away from Crowley," Sam added as a last warning.

"Crowley's here?" I asked, my voice going a little shrill.

"That goes for you too," he told me.

"Oh...okay," I agreed, a little disappointed.

I liked Crowley. But yeah, this was probably for the best. King of Hell—not fluffy bunny. Must remember that. It was dangerous not to remember stuff like that. And I was so concerned about not dying a horrible death… And with Crowley's weird thing about Prophets… Yeah, it was definitely in my best interest to stay away from him.

"For the record," I called to Sam's retreating back, "you're insane for leaving us alone with him. Tied up in a demon trap or not, King of Hell is still the King of Hell."

A muffled and exasperated " _Thank you!_ " escaped down through the open door of the file room. Kevin flinched noticeably and went to slam it shut. I shot him a sympathetic look. I didn't remember all the details, but I knew Kevin's mom had suffered something awful at the hands of Crowley and his demons. That wasn't cool. I suddenly decided I didn't like Crowley as much as his actor anymore.

Sam sent me a long suffering look and explained, "We can't move him again, Hadley. It's too dangerous."

"Then take us with you," I suggested, gesturing to Kevin and myself. "We can translate on the go."

Sam furrowed his brow in confusion, remarking on, " _We_?"

"She's a Prophet now," Kevin supplied, walking back over. "God-shenanigans."

"God— _what?_ " He looked to me for clarification.

"Raincheck?" I suggested, nodding at his duffel bag.

"Right…" he agreed reluctantly, then shook his head. "Either way, doesn't matter. Those tablets don't leave this bunker. Neither do you. You're on suicide watch. Kevin, don't let her out of your sight."

"I'm _not_ —" I began heatedly.

"Yes, sir…" Kevin gave an ironic little salute, and when I sent him a betrayed look, he merely suggested, "Coffee?"

Miraculously, I no longer felt betrayed.

"God, yes."

 **So, I noticed no one has reviewed this yet, so I'm kind of starving for feedback.**

 **I need you guys to let me know if this is the kind of stuff you want to see! Should I continue this, or not?**

 **Tell me what you think in a review, if you can!**

 **Thanks for reading! -Tsohg a ma I**


	3. We Can't Always Get What We Want

**NOT ABOUT ANGELS**

 **CHAPTER THREE: WE CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT WE WANT**

I spent most of my time organizing notes, and going through files—which, ironically, wasn't that much different from what I did at home. I was an analyst, and an organization specialist at the firm where I worked. Organizing and going through files was what I did for a living, and I was very good at it.

I was now working on a way of indexing the Men of Letters lore on a digital platform, which was a little difficult with technology being almost six years out of date, but I was managing. Not to mention, I learned a lot of things I never thought I wanted to know...such as the fact that the djinn from a Thousand and One Nights was trapped in a storage unit somewhere in Oklahoma.

I was working with Kevin for three days, organizing different schemas for notes on the tablets when it occurred to me…

"Where's Castiel?" I interrupted the silence, a troubled frown on my lips.

And once the thought occurred to me, it stuck in my head, distracting me from the already headache inducing work Kevin and I were doing on the angel tablets. I was nowhere near as good at it as him, but then, Kevin was a genius, so...

Kevin looked up from his translations, bags under his eyes, and said, "What?"

"Castiel," I repeated. "You know, angel? Wears a trench coat? Kinda clueless?" I paused, a strange feeling of dread in my chest. "This isn't one of those split universes where he's dead, is it?"

Kevin blinked sleepiness out of his eyes and yawned, "O-oh, him. Yeah, he's 'died' a couple of times actually, but he's still kicking around somewhere. Sam and Dean said he lost his grace."

My face went slack as vague memories of season nine whipped through my head like wildfire.

Softly, I inquired, "Aren't the other angels looking for him?"

"Yeah," Kevin rubbed his head, looking exhausted. "They're all angry, because it's his fault they got kicked out of heaven. This table lit up like the eastern seaboard when it happened. Kind of like when you showed up, only the whole bunker locked down—I thought the world was ending."

I felt the blood slowly drain from my face, my stomach turning over.

"So, Sam and Dean know where he is, right? They're going to go get him?" I assumed.

Kevin looked at me uncertainly. "Umm…"

And so that's what had me on the phone ten minutes later with the hunters, yelling at Dean.

"And you thought it was a good idea to, what? Just leave him on his own?" I shouted into the phone.

"Listen, Cas is a big boy. He can take care of himself," Dean answered shortly. "We're in the middle of an important case right now—he'd understand—"

"Are you an idiot!? He's practically _human!_ " My voice went shrill as I pointed out, "He's lost his batteries, and all the other angels are out for blood! It's him against the world out there! How would _you_ like standing against those odds?!"

"She might have a point, Dean..." I heard Sam say in the background on speakerphone.

"Whatever, fact still stands, we're on a case—a few demons are holding some hunters hostage—we can't just drop everything—"

"Do you know where he is?" I demanded quickly.

"Roundabouts, yeah," Dean answered surlily. "What of it?"

"Those cars in the garage still work, right?" I asked, and proposed my craziest idea yet, "Give me his location, and I'll go get him."

Dean paused in what must've been disbelief before instantly objecting, "Uh-uh—no way. Too dangerous. And you're still on suicide watch! Not only that, but somehow you're a Prophet now, so you need to stay with Kevin where it's safe!"

"Yeah, well, there are only four people in the world besides _God_ who know that, so maybe don't _shout it from the rooftops!_ " I hissed into the receiver pointedly. "And forget me, you know who's _really_ not safe? Cas!"

"Dean," Sam said reasonably, "against all odds, she _is_ a prophet now… Maybe she knows what she's talking about. What if Cas is really in danger?"

"I think he'll be _fine_ ," I reassured, calming somewhat when talking to Sam. Dean never failed to get me riled up with his stubborn attitude. "But he's going it rough right now, and is his _life_ really something you want to gamble with? I can _help_."

A pause and then, "What do you care about Cas, anyway? You don't even know him."

"He's extremely important," I grated out in frustration. "If he dies—I mean _really_ dies—trust me when I say, we're all _fucked_." At the heavy silence on the other end of the line, I asked, "Once again, is that really something you want to play around with?"

Thirty minutes later, I was provisioning myself to get halfway across the country. I was equipped with various stolen clothes from Sam, Dean, and Kevin, shoved haphazardly into a shoulder bag, along with some scammed credit cards I found in a box. More daunting was the gun stuck in the back of my jeans. I didn't know how to use it, really, but I figured if push came to shove…it was better than nothing. There was also a switchblade shoved down the side of my boot just in case.

Even more concerning though—and something I knew neither Sam nor Dean would approve of—were the Men of Letters brand cyanide capsules shoved down my bra… But I knew what I was up against. There were many things worse than death in this world, and I knew, even if I wasn't strong, or brave, I had to be prepared to fight against them in whatever way I could. If that required silencing myself forever, then I would do it, since Chuck, in all his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to make my life a hell of a lot harder… But then...something my grandma always said came back to me.

 _God never gives you more than you can handle_.

I hoped she was right.

"Okay, so, I recalibrated the GPS on your phone to work with the global positioning satellites in this dimension," Kevin handed the device back to me a little reluctantly, unwilling to relinquish the piece of future technology so soon. I had one of Sam and Dean's many spare burner phones on me as well.

"Kevin, you're a wizard," I took the phone back reverently. "Seriously, you are _wasted_ here on all of us. This world isn't ready for the awesomeness that is Kevin Solo—I mean Tran." I grinned at our little inside joke. "I'd be lost without this thing. Literally. Thanks."

"Hah, yeah. Just don't rely on it too heavily," he cautioned me. "Sometimes, with this Prophet stuff, you just gotta follow your gut…"

I sighed, eyeing the old mustang with a frown.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something," I muttered. "I always forget at least one thing before I go on a trip, and then I'm banging my head on the steering wheel later because I need it—and right now, I feel like I should bring grenades. Do we have any of those?"

"You're not going out to fight a war, you know," Kevin reminded me.

"Yeah, well it feels like it…" I crossed my arms and rubbed them nervously. "Besides, isn't that essentially what Sam and Dean do every day?"

Kevin gave me a look.

"Not everyone is like Sam and Dean."

"Hah!" I laughed at that mirthlessly. "Don't I know it… Hey, listen, is that hug still up for grabs? Because I could really use one right now. Either that," I added, "or a couple shots of straight vodka, if we have it."

Kevin gestured at the car. "Really?"

And I laughed and hugged him, because things like driving while intoxicated seemed like normal people problems. I missed those already.

"Be good," I told him, trying to keep the residual smile on my face and not let it falter with my nerves.

"I always am," he answered, returning it with a self-depreciative one. "Come back soon though. I don't know how I ever did this without you."

I grinned. "With _style_ , of course. You're a wizard, remember?"

"Yeah, well. Some days I wish I could send my Hogwarts letter back."

"Don't we all…" I concluded on a grim note, and with that, I was off.

…

I had a lot of time to think on the road. The driving helped. It was normal; soothing, almost. Maybe that's part of why Dean loved the Impala so much. Maybe it helped keep him sane. The music helped too. I grabbed my AUX cord out of my purse and plugged my phone into it, praying the new tech would work with the old. Miraculously, with a little fiddling, I was able to get my favorite mind-numbing playlists to belt out on the radio. I wondered if I should thank God.

I spent most of the trip singing at the top of my lungs, trying not to think too hard about things. Every moment out of the bunker had felt like a suicide run on Dark Souls III. My blood pressure was probably up through the roof, because I kept imagining all those dead bodies—those poor idiots you see at the beginnings of episodes, who don't make it to the end. I figured if I kept driving for as long and fast as I could with only short stops for gas and one-night motels, I'd be safe. I didn't talk to anyone aside from motel clerks and gas station attendants, which still made me feel paranoid. There was no telling who was possessed, who was a monster, and who committed ritual sacrifice in their basement.

Despite how much this routine catered to my paranoia, I made good time, and I was just crossing over the border into Indiana when Dean's burner phone started ringing. My eyes had just started to droop, and I knew it was about time to pull into a motel for the night, so I merged into the next exit, and picked up the phone. Seeing the caller ID read Kevin, I answered it immediately.

"Kev? Hey, what's up?" I said eagerly into the receiver.

I'd gotten into the habit of calling him whenever I checked into a motel, right before I went to bed, or when I was feeling particularly nervous out here in the open, and he called me whenever he was feeling particularly nervous in the bunker with Crowley. It was good to hear a friendly person's voice, I'd found, whenever you felt really alone. It had been so long since I'd had... _friends_ I guess, and it was a bit of a surprise that I'd found one. When I'd realized that, there was a funny sort of floaty feeling in my chest that actually took me a little while to identify as _happiness_.

It was dampened though, when I remembered that Kevin died in the show. The image of his eyes burning out of his head stuck in my mind like a thorn I couldn't dig out. I couldn't remember how, or what the circumstances were, but the very thought of it kindled a feeling of dread so strong it caused me to break out into sweats. It was something I thought a lot about on the road when the music went silent, or those handfuls of moments I laid awake in the dark, staring at the cracks in motel room ceilings before slowly falling asleep. Kevin absolutely couldn't die, I decided. It wasn't allowed. I knew I had to do something. Only...I didn't know what it was yet.

I just prayed an answer would come to me in time.

"...Kevin?" I said again, when I received no answer. "Are you there?"

"Um...yeah," he said, voice drawn.

Something was up.

"What's wrong?" I asked urgently. "Did something happen?"

"...Sort of," he answered quietly. "I...need to ask you something."

I frowned. "About…?"

"Prophet stuff," he said. " _Your_ Prophet stuff, specifically… I've never really been good with the future thing—just the tablets, and, uh...anyway," he trailed off, seeming to realize he was rambling, "I was wondering if you, um...if you might know anything about…"

"Kev, spit it out," I prompted him aggrivatedly as I pulled into a parking spot in front of a seedy looking establishment called the Red Light Inn.

"My mom," he said finally. "What do you know about...what happened to her?"

"I…" I paused, thrown a little, thinking hard before admitting, "Kev...you know there's a lot I don't remember. The specifics are lost on me. My information is unreliable at best…I don't..."

" _Is she alive?_ " he asked abruptly. "You'd tell me if she was alive, wouldn't you?"

"I…" I was completely mixed up. "I...I don't know. I think...I think I remember her fighting. She was tough...I mean, really tough—and determined, and _brave_ …"

Kevin let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah...yeah that sounds like her."

"Kev…" I said softly. "I'm _so_ sorry… I wish there was more I could tell you. I know there's more to it, but...this future thing is hard." I sighed heavily. "Especially when I'm still not entirely clear on what's happened and what hasn't yet… Everything gets all turned around, and…" I paused, my green eyes unfocused, drifting towards the red neon sign of the motel I'd chosen for the night as a vague memory flashed through my head, making me inhale sharply. "Red eyes…"

"What?"

"Red eyes." I said more decisively as the memory solidified further in my head. I wasn't sure if it was real or not, but I couldn't dismiss it. "I think I remember your mom with red eyes—Oh, god, Kevin, I think I saw her get possessed—surrounded by demons—something to do with Crowley—" I broke off as another memory besieged my thoughts, and I stressed, "Kevin, _stay away_ from him!"

There was a grim silence from the other end of the line, and then Kevin muttered, "It's a little late for that…"

"Listen," I hissed into the phone, anxiousness making my heart jump in my chest, "I have to tell you—I didn't know if it was a good idea before, but now… Kevin…" I chewed my lip nervously before finally admitting, "I remembered you _dying_. I _saw_ it."

"I…" Kevin's voice faltered a little, "I'm going to die?"

" _No!_ I…" I clenched my eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of my nose as I felt a headache coming on. "There are so many things I've forgotten, but...Kevin, your eyes were burning out of your _skull_ ," I emphasized, aware that this probably wasn't helping. "I don't know how, or when it's supposed to happen, but all I know to do is for you to avoid whatever can _do that_ to a person." I listed off, "Angels, and certain powerful _demons_." Pointedly, I concluded, "You need to stay _away_ from demons, Kevin! Demons like _Crowley!_ "

"But if they've got my mom…"

"What if it's a trap?" I challenged. "What if the whole point of this is to get you out where they can find you, and _kill_ you!?"

Kevin's voice took on a stronger, more adamant tone.

"If she's alive, I have to find her."

My stomach sunk lower and lower as I recognized the steel behind that tone, and my own voice faltered.

"At least wait for Sam and Dean to get back— _please_ …" I paused, feeling the pressure of tears building behind my eyes, and I admitted in a wobbly voice. "I don't want you to die, Kevin—you're…" I swallowed thickly. "You're my only friend, you know…?"

There was a heavy silence on the line in the wake of that painfully heartfelt confession.

Finally came the sound of Kevin sniffing back what suspiciously sounded like tears, and his voice was a little unsteady when he admitted, "Yeah, you're...you're kinda my only friend too. The rest were either tortured, killed, or possessed I think..."

"Oh, _Kevin_ …" I winced with sympathy for him. "We'll figure something out when we're all back at the bunker, I promise. If Sam and Dean don't want to cooperate, we'll find another way, okay? Don't give up hope yet."

"Heh," he laughed a little hollowly. "If there's one thing my mom taught me, it's that giving up is for losers..." A pause, and then, "Thanks, Hadley. I really needed someone to talk to other than Crowley."

"I'll say!" I remarked emphatically. "When I get back, that demon bastard and I are going to have words." A promise. "And I've got dirt on him. If he wants to bring mothers into this, I'll track down _his_ mother, and see how happy he is about that."

" _Crowley_ has a _mother?_ " Kevin sounded baffled, as if the notion had never occurred to him. Admittedly, that wasn't surprising.

"Most things _do_ … Even evil bastards have mothers," I pointed out with a smile in my voice. "And Crowley's? She's a real witch… So if he wants to sink down to that level of depravity, we'll throw it right back in his face with all we've got." I concluded decisively, "Sound like a plan?"

There was a little danger in Kevin's emphatic response of, "Hell, yes."

…

I arrived at long last in the small town Castiel had called Sam and Dean from. Originally, I had set out with the intention of whinging it, following weird news and hearsay, but Sam inevitably had me beat at that. The brothers were growing more worried about their friend the longer he went without contacting them, and something Sam found on the internet about a girl found dead and broken with her eyes burned out in a wreck on the side of the highway had their hunty senses tingling.

"Start there," came his voice on my borrowed phone. "We're on our way, but we're a couple days out, so you'll have a better chance of getting there first." A pause and then, "Are you sure you're up for this? It could be dangerous."

I thought about that, and answered honestly, "No. I'm really not up for this at all. But I know what I signed up for, Sam." I continued determinedly, "Look, I'm no hunter, but I know a little something about something, and if I know one thing…" I paused, emphasizing my next words for their gravity, "if there's _any_ chance of Finding Castiel before the angels do, we have to take it."

Sam listened gravely on the other line, and answered, "Listen, Hadley, I want to thank you for doing this… Cas is a dear friend of ours, and I think you're really brave for wanting to help… Just...don't bite off more than you can chew, and...try to stay under the radar if you can."

"Subtlety is my middle name..." I remarked dryly. "For real, I was practically invisible back home. So, no worries on that front.." At that awkward bit of overshare, I cleared my throat and assured, "Anyway, I'll keep you posted. Stay safe, and godspeed 'n all that sentimental bullshit…"

"Heh," Sam huffed in amusement. "Yeah, you too. See you soon—"

"Wait!" I halted him before he could disconnect from the line, quickly asking, "Have you talked to Kevin at all since yesterday?"

"Uh, no. Why?"

"You should," I advised. "It's about his mom. Crowley's plotting something, but I think I've got enough leverage to outmaneuver him."

"Outmaneuver the _King of Hell?_ " Sam asked incredulously.

"I know it sounds crazy," I agreed.

"More like suicidal," Sam added.

"And definitely biting off more than I can chew," I went on as if I hadn't heard him drop the S-word, "but I'll explain everything back at the bunker." I entreated him with, "Call Kevin. He knows more," and added, "Besides, I think he could really use someone to talk to right now… Crowley's got his head messed up in a really bad way, Sam."

"Yeah…" Sam answered with a tinge of guilt. "Yeah, will do… Just—Hadley, don't get in over your head."

"Sam..." I answered in a carefully diplomatic tone, "I was _in over my head_ the moment I tripped through a rift in time and space, and crash landed in your bunker."

There was a telling silence over the line and then Sam conceded, "Okay, so you have a point, but _willfully_ putting yourself in danger isn't going to help matters."

"Yes, _mom_..." I muttered sardonically.

"This isn't a joke," he insisted, voice hardening with frustration.

"You think I don't know that?" I hissedinto the phone, laughing humorlessly with a tinge of residual hysteria. "Sam, I wanted to _kill myself_ when I got here because laying down and dying quickly sounded like a better alternative than dying in utter _agony_." I changed tracts with a softer voice. "But since then, I've decided, if I'm going to die either way, I'd rather do it on my own terms. Blaze of glory. Not out of fear, because that's just fucking pathetic…not to mention it's a waste of resources."

"...I'd rather you didn't have to die at all," Sam said grimly.

"Well, that's very sweet," I answered a little condescendingly. "But you—of all people, Sam Winchester—should know we can't always get what we want…"

And with that, I hit the end button and the line went dead.

…

 **Geez, I've been using the mobile app to update, and preserving the formatting on this baby has been a** _ **bitch.**_ **Sooo many edits... I'm writing all this on mobile devices because my computer is busted, so if you see any huge errors, let me know!**

 **Anyway, I figured that was a good place to end this nice, long chapter :) Sorry not a whole lot happened in this—lots of Kevin though for people who love Kevin—but we enter Cas next time, so I hope you're excited for that!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Don't forget to leave a review!**

 **-tsohg a ma I**


	4. Kamikaze

**NOT ABOUT ANGELS**

 **CHAPTER FOUR: KAMIKAZE**

Working a case wasn't easy.

Not only did I not have a suit, or a fancy fake FBI badge to flash at whomever attempted to obstruct investigation. Even when I showed up at the scene with a notepad and my phone recorder, claiming to be a freelance investigative journalist, the cops still wouldn't give me any information. They wouldn't even believe I was over twenty-one, much less twenty-seven until I showed them my license. I had one of those typical baby faces with little definition—all dimples, cupid lips, and even a button nose. It was the first thing anyone judged me by, and I was used to being called cute and girlish, despite a blatantly curvy and fully developed womanly figure.

The result?

No one took me seriously.

The side benefit?

Everyone underestimated me.

Which was a good thing, because that meant I could get away with a _lot_. Everyone assumes someone who looks like I do is innocent and rule abiding. But I had to do a _lot_ of things I'm not proud of to move up in my line of work. It's just the way this sick world works. And once I'd exhausted all my options when it came to forcing my way into the investigation, I resorted the tried and true method of flirting the information out of a young, impressionable officer by the name of Gary.

All it took was a bit of positive attention and a stroking of the ego. Gary was so forthcoming after that, he even showed me some of the case file photos. And what I saw had my memory bursting with color. The girl. I couldn't remember her name, but I could remember her talking with Castiel. She could clearly be identified as a dead angel by the manner of how she'd died. Anyone normal would think it was the fact that she'd flown through a windshield with glass stuck in her face, and several broken bones including an open fracture wound. But that wasn't what killed her.

No, that stab wound and the black pits where eyes used to be were clearly the work of an angel blade.

In the end, when I left the police station, I could only conclude that Castiel was heading north up the highway. That, and I was _positive_ I was on the right trail when I stopped at a laundromat and found some very familiar—not to mention _bloody_ —clothes abandoned in a washer. I took them with me when I left, freshly washed with the rest of my borrowed clothing, though those bloodstains were probably going to need to come out with peroxide if they were going to come out at all…

I started checking the homeless shelters next, and stumbled upon a few more dead angels—or maybe not. Two priests were killed at a shelter, and this time no amount of cajoling or flirting could get the police to let me in on the investigation. All I knew was that their eyes were burned out. More angel deaths, or smiting, I couldn't know for sure without further investigating.

Either way, after I reported my findings to Sam and Dean, I was left at a bit of a loss. The trail had gone cold. Not only that, but my GPS was acting up on me, and I didn't know where the hell I was now. I was bouncing my head on my steering wheel, wishing— _praying_ —that just one thing would go right for once. I leaned back and covered my eyes with my hands, blacking out the setting sun that glared in through the reflective tinted windows of the Mustang.

"Where are you, Castiel...?" I muttered into the ether.

It was then that a piercing pain I usually ever only associated with the loathsome angel tablets sent a shock through my synapses. I groaned pitifully at the monster migraine, reaching out a flapping hand, feeling around for my phone. I'd try the GPS again, set it to look for a nearby pharmacy in this twisty-turny backasswards city. But another pulse of pain sent me reeling forward, and I knew I had to find some Advil or something soon or my head was going to explode. GPS or no GPS, I needed to get to a convenience store pronto.

Amazingly, as I pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, my head started to feel the slightest bit better. It still hurt like a mother, but the throbbing was becoming bearable. It was strange though, I thought, as the sun quickly sunk beyond the tall city buildings. There was an odd ringing in my ears that seemed more familiar, and different than common tinnitus. And as I drove through the city, I noticed it appeared to get louder the closer I got to the east side.

As I continued to have no luck with the GPS, throwing it aside in frustration, something Kevin said at the bunker came back to me.

 _Sometimes, with this Prophet stuff, you just gotta follow your gut._

I almost slammed on the breaks in my sudden urgency to turn around. And that's certainly what my gut was telling me. Which was weird, because let me just say, I've never had the best sense of direction, and that's a fact. But everything in me was telling me to go back the other direction, and I took the next turn to round the block without hesitation. The next compulsion came just as suddenly, and my headache pulsed again with a nasty throb.

Right.

Turn left.

Go around.

Through there.

I was now the driver everyone on the road hated. Weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and blowing my horn, that was until the area became sparser and seedier looking. With shady looking characters on every corner, it almost made me want to lock my doors out of paranoia for carjacking. I almost passed the alley with the shadows moving in it, just because _every_ other alley in this godforsaken place was _crawling_ with suspicious shadows. But something told me to stop, and I'm glad I did.

Lo and behold, there was Castiel, whole and hale...

Only he appeared to be fighting for his life.

He was being cornered by two angels with shining silver blades. He was holding his own, but when he barred his blade to hold off the other angel's downstrike, he was thrown off balance and shoved into the filthy wall of the alley. His own blade flew out of his hand on impact. Seeing victory, the other angel zeroed in for the kill, but Castiel moved his unprotected hand up at the last second to block the blow once more. The resulting spray of blood and cry of pain was like a bucket of ice cold water over my head.

My stomach flipped over, and I began to panic, muttering a mantra of, "Oh god. Oh god. What do I do? What do I do?"

In the end, the answer came to me without needing to think.

I just turned the Mustang into the alley and floored it. Castiel's two assailants had only enough time to look up in startled shock for about a _second_ at the sound of screeching tires before I plowed into them like a wrecking ball, sending them careening down the other end of the alley. It was a good thing I was wearing my seatbelt though, because I probably would've went flying out the windshield after them. It felt like running into a brick wall at top speed, and I knew I'd probably dented the bumper horrendously with that stunt, but that was the least of my worries. I shook off my disorientation quickly, because I had no other choice.

Reaching over clumsily to fling the passenger door open, I shouted at the bewildered Castiel, "Get in!"

He hesitated for a heavy moment, a look of misgiving on his face as he eyed me with a wary frown. But the other angels were stirring—we both knew this wouldn't keep them down for long—and he only lingered long enough to sweep up his fallen blade before hurrying to follow my 'gentle suggestion.' We both knew there was no time for questions or motives, and he swung the door shut even as I was shifting the Mustang into reverse, backing out of the alley at top speed with another screech of burning rubber. Neither of us said a word as I deliberately ran about ten stop lights and blatantly disregarded traffic laws. But I could feel his piercing blue eyes digging into me the entire way out of the city, still 'following my gut,' as Kevin put it, as fast and as far away from the ringing in my ears as I could.

And then his voice rumbled out in that low gravelly tone he was so well known for with the question of the ages.

"Who are you?"

My eyes darted to him and the angel blade he was gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white, strategically angled in a way that would be a straight shot up and under my ribcage.

Swallowing tightly, I nodded in an attempt at civility, and answered shortly and simply with, "Hadley." At the narrowing of his droopy eyes, I gestured quickly to glove compartment and said, "There's a phone. In there. Call Dean. He'll explain everything."

I _hoped_ …

Castiel slowly reached into the compartment and retrieved said phone, still refusing to let go of the angel blade, even though his hand was clearly injured and bleeding through the cracks of his fingers. _Ouch_... He quickly dialed the number by heart and held the phone to his ear, still not taking his wary eyes off me.

"Dean," he greeted shortly with a slight tinge of relief in his voice when the hunter picked up on the other end. His shoulders dropped, and he may have eased up just a little on the blade, but I couldn't be sure.

His eyes focused on me with a little more intensity at something Dean said, and he answered with a firm, blunt, "Yes." Then, quite shocked, he remarked, "A _Prophet?_ "

At that I rolled my eyes, reaching over and gesturing for the phone impatiently. Castiel relinquished it a little uncertainly, but once I got ahold of it, I set it on speaker.

Instantly, I snarled, "What did I say about that, Dean?! You're not going around, spreading it to everyone you meet, are you? It's not exactly something I'd like to become common knowledge!"

"Cool your tits, Kamikaze—it's just Cas," the hunter retorted in a typical surly manner.

"Sure, whatever. _Don't_ call me that," I huffed, tossing the phone up on the dashboard. "Look, can you just explain things so he doesn't stab me in the fucking face?"

"How did you even _find_ him?" Dean countered. "Last I heard, you were at a dead end, Nancy Drew."

My lip curling in displeasure, I explained, "I think it was something to do with my Prophet thing. The angels...I could sense their mojo or something—gave me one hell of a headache."

"So...what? You're like a prophetic angel detector or something?" he summarized bluntly.

"Apparently…" I grumbled back, rubbing circles on my temple and glaring stormily out at the road ahead of me.

"Awesome," Dean said after turning that over in his head for a few seconds. "This is good. We can use that."

"Oh, _yaaay_..." I muttered scathingly.

"Yeah, think about it," I heard Sam butt in on the other line. "The angels are after Cas. If you can sense them coming, with a little strategic navigation, you can have them running around in circles while you're making your way back to the bunker."

"Yeah...about that," I grumbled despondently, "Something's screwed with my GPS. I have no idea where the fuck I'm going."

"As long as it's away from angels, you're in the clear," Sam assured.

"Yeah, and Cas knows the way—Don't'cha, Cas?" Dean pointed out.

"My sense of direction is still intact, yes," the defunct angel replied grimly, flexing his injured hand with an almost intrigued sort of scrutiny. "If nothing else…"

"Well, we're glad you're okay," Sam remarked candidly.

"Yeah, welcome back, bud," Dean seconded that with enthusiasm, then added on a little grudgingly, "...You did good, kid."

It took me a second to realize that last bit was directed at me, and when I did, a pleasant feeling of surprise bloomed in my chest.

I couldn't even stop the smile from entering my voice as I reminded him, "Once again, twenty-seven years old—not a kid."

"Whatever," he disregarded flippantly, and I couldn't even work up enough motivation to be annoyed with him when he started barking out orders. "You two head back to the bunker. We'll meet you halfway, and then we can talk about your crazyass plan to trump the King of Hell, Hadley."

"It's not _crazy_ —just a little...mindlessly dangerous, with the rather large probability of it biting me in the ass..." I muttered, trailing off, and pointing out defensively, "Look, at least I _have_ a plan! What, were you just going to leave him chained up in your basement indefinitely?"

"Kinda plannin' on it, yeah," he confirmed matter-of-factly. "It's not like he doesn't deserve it."

Couldn't argue with that.

"True. But do we?"

"Much has happened since I've been gone…" Castiel reflected soberly on all he had gained from the conversation.

"You don't even know the half of it," I remarked emphatically.

"I don't," he agreed, looking at me a little puzzledly.

I returned it with a slightly exasperated look of my own, and as if Dean could see the exchange transpiring right in front of him, he laughed, "Yeah, he does that. Take good care of our boy, gunslinger girl."

"Fuck _you_ , Dean."

"Up yours, _Hadley_."

Disgusted, I shut the phone off speaker and shoved it at Castiel. "Here, _you_ talk to him. I just can't even..."

As they discussed travel plans over the phone, I merely followed Sam's directive in getting as far away from the ringing headache of angel mojo as humanly possible. I had no idea where I was going, I just drove furiously in the opposite direction until Cas hung up, and silence once again smothered the enclosed space of the vehicle.

"Well?" I prompted him shortly. "Which way, Sacajawea? Don't leave me hanging here."

"You're not hanging from anything," he pointed out astutely, giving me that cocked-headed, puzzled look again.

I sighed heavily, rephrasing, "that's correct. However, I _am_ waiting in terrible suspense—not unlike the feeling of hanging from a noose with one's lungs screaming for relief—for you to give me directions." I smiled with forced patience. "Does that clear a few things up?"

Understanding lit up in his eyes like a Christmas tree, and he answered, "Oh. Of course." Obligingly, he detailed, "Sam and Dean wish to meet us at a dinner in Illinois to discuss tactics."

"Okay…sounds good." I nodded slowly eyeing the green highway signs for pointers, relieved to see I was headed in the right direction, which also happened to be heading away from the Angels, although… It seemed as if they were always on the edge of my senses, just managing to keep dogging our trail…

Frowning, I looked to Castiel and queried, "Got any ideas about how to throw the hounds off our scent? I think they're still following us somehow."

His eyes narrowed. "I was afraid of that." He frowned and explained, "I know of a way to 'throw them off the scent,' but it will cost us a fair amount…"

"Not an issue," I assured, and reached into my jacket pocket to toss him the wallet full of scammed cards. It was when he fumbled quite spectacularly with a sharp intake of breath that I looked at him closely for the first time…

Clearly, he was exhausted. His dirty clothes looked to have been fished out of a dumpster somewhere, and it was only due to the fact my window was all the way down that I hadn't noticed the stench of them earlier… His hair was greasy, and his eye bags had bags under them, not to mention he was now cradling his injured hand against himself, and was evidently not doing well with his pain threshold—though, admirably, he had not voiced a single sound of complaint.

A strong feeling of remorse nearly overcame me for how insensitive I was acting. I looked away and merged into the next exit.

"Never mind all that right now..." I told him softly. "Let's get you taken care of first."

"I'm fine," he rasped and attempted to sit straighter as if that would somehow prove it. Judging by the grimace on his face, even that effort proved challenging.

I merely stared him down out of the corner of my eye with a stern look until he gave in with a reluctant nod.

I checked us into a somewhat nicer motel than the ones I'd bunked at on my way to Indiana. I figured Castiel deserved it after all the shit he'd been through these last few days. He really was taking it all like a champ, I thought—which just made me feel worse for him. While he was in the shower, I made a quick run to the convenience store and a halfway decent fast food chain for some hydrogen peroxide and a hot meal respectively.

I managed to get the bloodstains out of the clothes I found at the laundromat, and actually made it back to the room right as I heard the shower head shut off. Perfect timing? Or just a _really_ long shower? I was willing to bet on the former. Were I in his shoes, I probably would have spent a good portion of it contemplating whether or not to attempt at drowning myself...but then again, that's just me.

When he emerged from the steamy washroom wrapped in a hotel robe with his dumpster diver suit under one arm, I shook my head at him.

"Hey, throw those stinky things out—I come bearing gifts." I tossed his old clothes onto the second bed and watched his expression change from glum resignation to pleasant surprise.

"How did you find them?" he asked incredulously.

I shrugged, my lips curling ironically when I admitted, "sheer, dumb luck?"

" _Thank you_ ," he said sincerely, running a hand over the old familiar threads almost reverently. Hell, after being forced into the dumpster suit, I'd probably feel the same about _any_ clean clothes.

"Don't thank me yet—I'm not through with you." I patted the space next to me on the bed. "Sit. Let's take a look at that hand."

He gave me a longsuffering look, but complied with no other protest. I winced in sympathy at the damage, and dabbed at it gently with a peroxide soaked cotton ball from the Mustang's meager first aid kit. It probably wasn't the _best_ nor the gentlest choice of antiseptic, but it was what I had.

I sighed and shook my head.

"This is definitely going to need stitches...but hopefully plasters will hold it over until we reach Sam and Dean. They'll fix you right up in no time, I'm sure."

The angel didn't answer. Only stared at the red gash on his palm like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Frowning with an overabundance of concern, I placed a careful hand on his shoulder and asked softly, "...Castiel? Are you alright?"

He tore his eyes away from his wounded hand then, transferring that unfathomable gaze to sweep every corner of my face, finally admitting, "I'm...overwhelmed."

Join the club.

I was unable to help but smile brightly at him. I couldn't contain a huff of laughter either.

But at his troubled frown, I merely shook my head and remarked, "let me guess—you feel completely out of your depth. You feel lost and confused, like you've been tossed into a completely different world with no chance of ever returning to where you were, or the way things used to be. Like you'll never be home again." I sighed. "Furthermore, you wonder if home is even _worth_ going back to."

If possible, his intrigued expression only deepened, and he voiced, "You really must be a Prophet. I didn't believe it at first. All the Prophets who ever were, or ever shall be, are known to angels, and I did not recognize you…" His eyes scanned my face yet again, as if hoping to find some sort of answers there, and he asked, "How is this possible?"

Again, I laughed softly and shook my head. "Trust me, I've asked myself that question more times than I can count in the past few days…"

Castiel's face was grim as he ventured, "I assume you were called after Kevin… This is terrible news." His frown was somber but painted a picture of reluctant acceptance as he asked, "how did he meet his demise?"

Once again, I laughed, and explained, "Oh, no. Kevin's not dead. You'll see him when we get back to the bunker." Castiel's almost permanently baffled expression only solidified further, and I smiled sympathetically. "It's a long story. Here—" I handed him a bag with a burger and fries "—you eat something, and I'll help catch you up to speed. Agreed?"

He regarded the offering dubiously, but the awful noise his stomach was making at him seemed to settle the matter in his mind, and he nodded in resigned sobriety. "Agreed."

And so I caught him up with current events, including Crowley's largely unwanted presence at the bunker, Sam and Dean's account of the return of Abaddon, the Knight of Hell, and her quest to usurp the missing King, and on top of all that, a gateway to another reality and its unwilling admit-one.

"And you were the Prophet from your reality. Yes, I see now. It makes sense," Castiel nodded to himself surely.

"Heh, that _would_ make more sense, however…" I contradicted, "God was the one who made me a Prophet."

"Yes…" The angel's brow furrowed once more in confusion. "God made all the prophets."

" _No_ ," I shook my head, explaining, "you don't understand, Castiel—God only made me a Prophet _after_ I got here."

He choked so violently on a fry at that admission, I was afraid I was going to have to perform the Heimlich.

After that mini-crisis, Castiel, gawked at me for a second, and said, "Just to clarify, you're implying that our _Father_ appeared before you and personally blessed you with his heavenly gift."

"In a dream, yes. No implications here, just cold hard facts," I muttered unhappily. "And I wouldn't call it a gift—I'd say it's more of a giant problem..."

"But you _saw_ him," Castiel persisted avidly. "He _spoke_ to you."

" _Yes_ ," I answered slowly and concisely. "He said he's a little concerned about random rifts to other realities opening up in the world he made, and spitting people, such as myself, _out_. Only he doesn't think it's random, so he's made up his mind to conduct some kind of cosmic investigation."

I decided to leave out the bits about book deals, and cat blogs. I was afraid it might actually make Castiel's head explode. He looked close enough to spontaneous combustion as it was.

He took several deep, calming breaths before pointing out, "I once spent a very long time looking for him. _Praying_ for his help. He did not answer then, nor did he seem concerned that the world he made was tearing itself _apart_..." He took another breath, evidently striving to keep a level head, before continuing, "You're one of the very few who have spoken with him in a millennia. You may know him better than anyone on Earth, at the moment. For all that, in your opinion, why do you suppose he is choosing to involve himself _now?_ "

I frowned. To be perfectly honest, I had thought about this many times already. I still didn't know why he chose to appear to me—even if it was only in my dream. He didn't seem the sort to care lightly about the individual. So then I could only assume, that it was less to do with _me_ personally, and more to do with the situation surrounding me. He'd said it himself. The rifts were a serious concern, even to higher beings like himself… And I think I had a few theories about why.

"Castiel...something I think you should understand is that despite popular opinion...God is _far_ from perfect. And he may have lit the spark of life in this world, but since then, it's taken on a will of its own, and he can't always fix everything with a snap of his fingers," I explained, reluctantly playing God's advocate. "I think...the reason he didn't come to aid you in the fight against Lucifer is because...well, he still can't stand to face the favorite son that he needed to lock away."

At that, Castiel's expression took on a thoughtful, contemplative look as he considered that possibility. I didn't know if I was right or not, but considering what I knew about Chuck, and his relationship with Lucifer, it was my best explanation for his behavior during the would-be apocalypse. But that's not what Castiel asked.

"As for why he's chosen to involve himself now, with the rift…" I continued, my eyes going dark as I examined the tacky motel carpet beneath my toes contemplatively. After a moment, I met Castiel's eyes again and answered gravely, "I can only assume he's trying to stop reality from _unwinding_ itself." At his daunted gaze, I shrugged sheepishly. "I could be completely off, so...use your own best judgement. But...it seems to me like the only reason important enough at the moment for him to come out of retirement is a scenario where not only do _we_ cease to exist..." I paused solemnly, "...but so does _he_."

Castiel's face was grave as I presented my grim theory, and he asked, "Have you shared this with Sam and Dean yet?"

I shook my head no. "I figured they've got enough to deal with as it is without adding bigger problems to their plate. And it's still just conjecture at this point. There's really not much any of us can do, I don't think, unless God decides to let us in on what's really happening...which honestly seems unlikely." I grimaced with a shrug. "One thing at time, right?"

"Right..." Castiel sighed, frowning in thought as he considered my side profile carefully. "I have one more question."

I turned to face him fully with a valiant effort at a smile, though it probably ended up looking incredibly forced. "Sure. What's on your mind?"

"Why make another Prophet?" he wondered critically. "There's only ever been one at a time. It makes very little sense…"

I shrugged again and shook my head. "It seemed like a spur of the moment kind of affair. I already knew a good bit about the future— _a_ future anyway, our realities are non-linear and this one is portrayed as a TV show in mine, as crazy as that sounds—and he doesn't know if he'll be able to send me back since there are so many…" I trailed off a little at that dreadful prospect, biting my lip sharply to stop it from shaking. A bit bitterly, I continued, "I don't know, Castiel. He said something about the Prophet bloodlines dying out, and that if I never ended up going home, I could start a new one, and that could be my ' _purpose_ ' here…"

"Breeding a new line of Prophets?" he mused with dawning comprehension.

"Yeah…" I muttered, the bitterness growing in my voice. " _Breeding_."

Castiel nodded unthinkingly, unable to sense the anger brewing in my chest.

"It's a worthy purpose, and a distinguished legacy to leave," he began brightly with a naive sort of optimism that ended up sparking my temper.

"Yeah, one I never _asked_ for," I snarled back. "Oh, and one more thing—who would _ever_ want to bring a _child_ into a fucked up world like this?"

He seemed to be a little struck speechless as he fully grasped the concept that a kid would inevitably have to be involved in the forming of said legacy. More importantly, _my_ kid. And I'd been through enough hell in the past few days that I couldn't even contemplate condemning someone to it for an entire _lifetime_. It was wrong, and nobody seemed to consider the consequences involved in any of it except for _me_.

And now Castiel, apparently, who was beginning to take on a thoroughly abashed, pink cheeked countenance.

"I didn't think about that…" he admitted ruefully.

"Yeah," I muttered with a reconciled sort of shrug. "Nobody ever does. _God_ certainly didn't." I rolled my eyes. "And _doesn't_. He seems to have a lot of trouble wrapping his head around the fact that actions have consequences. The greater the action, the greater the consequence. And creating a bloodline—a life? Or in God's case, life itself?" I shook my head. "The consequences are endless..." I concluded bleakley with a grim smile at the carpet, "I'm just part of the collateral damage."

Eventually, after a length of contemplative silence, I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Castiel's blue eyes filled with a profound look of understanding.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

My eyes took on an understanding of their own, and I nodded gravely.

"Me too..."

 **Hey! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Lots more action next time, and Sam and Dean catch up :)**

 **Let me know what you think!**

 **Reviews help with the writing process :)**


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